


Say What You Mean

by kutubiyya



Series: Snapshots [10]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, UST, UST relieved, how long can kutubiyya drag this out for?, sort of an AU in which Swanderson isn't a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Swanny doesn't let retirement stop him from meddling, Alastair (somewhat unwisely) decides that alcohol is the way forward, and Jimmy finds himself facing the final over of the second Test against Sri Lanka. (Headingley, June 2014.)</p><p>Please note that the ratings vary for individuals chapters of this instalment, and adjust your expectations accordingly: the first two are T, the third M, and the last chapter is Explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hard Day's Modelling

**Author's Note:**

> The first two chapters of this are set during and after the [Investec/Evening Standard photoshoot and interview](http://leatheronwillow.tumblr.com/post/90859013495/stuart-broad-james-anderson-and-alastair-cook), which took place at Headingley before the second Test against Sri Lanka, in June. Video footage is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYwIjcRrM3g) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=um9NCXAvIFw).
> 
> Gifsets abound, e.g.: [here](http://leatheronwillow.tumblr.com/post/93393690165) and [here](http://plumjaffas.tumblr.com/post/100456276873/dear-kutubiyya-i-felt-compelled-to-make-the-gifs).
> 
> I suspect everyone's familiar with Jimmy's purple shirt, but, y'know, [it never hurts to see it again](http://bibliolicious.tumblr.com/post/98814032045/baptonbooks-eekeekeek-plumjaffas-just).
> 
> There are more notes at the end of chapter 3.

**Swanny**  
_any progress on Operation Get In Jimmy’s Pants yet?_

**Alastair**  
_oh hello Swanny how are you?_

**Swanny**  
_I’m great. Agonised through the end of the first test with you, but sure you’ll win the next. so what about jimmy?_

**Alastair**  
_Not a good day for this_

**Swanny**  
_that’s a no, then. how long are you going to wait for a good day?_

**Alastair**  
_As long as it takes. don’t want to rush in & make a hash of it_

**Swanny**  
_It’s the middle of June. you’ve had 6 months!_

**Alastair**  
_6 months most of which we were nowhere near each other_

**Swanny**  
_but this past month you’ve had 5 odis and a test and lots & lots of nets. you srsly haven’t managed to work late at the office one night?_

**Alastair**  
_Honestly not a good day for this. photos and interview for investec and Evening standard with Jimmy and Broady. Literally surrounded by press!_

**Swanny**  
_so you mean you don’t want me to send you messages like cooky and jimmy stuck up a tree, doing what they shouldn’t be…_

**Alastair**  
_stop it! photoshoots bad enough without worrying what people can see on my phone_

**Swanny**  
_why on earth do YOU hate photoshoots?? you always look good. (tho not as good as me obvs)_

**Alastair**  
_So awkward! hate holding poses feels like my face will crack. Jimmy makes it look easy but its not_

**Swanny**  
_to be fair jimmy has lots of experience posing in front of mirrors etc. and I’m pretty sure he cheats somehow._

**Alastair**  
_i keep trying to watch how he’s doing it but then it looks like I’m staring at him._

**Swanny**  
_come on admit it I bet you ARE staring at him_

**Alastair**  
_sneaking some glances. I’m subtle. not my fault if photographer tells us move closer together ;)_

**Swanny**  
_you’re so sweet I think my teeth are rotting. talk to him!!_

**Alastair**  
_Ok are you texting Jimmy too? He just came over and said hi from you. he was SMILING what are you saying to him???_

**Swanny**  
_all perfectly innocent. clearly hearing from me just brightens up his day._

**Alastair**  
_i hate you_

**Swanny**  
_don’t panic, he still doesn’t know that you know that I know that… whatever. maybe he’s smiling because he likes you?_

**Alastair**  
_it cant possibly be that simple ;)_  
_he just said I can’t dress myself!_

**Swanny**  
_what?_

**Alastair**  
_He told the interviewer I look better today because someone else has dressed me. git._

**Swanny**  
_… this must be what it’s like to be a teenage girl_

**Alastair**  
_:p_

**Swanny**  
_tell him he can dress you if he likes. as long as he’s UNdressed you first._

**Alastair**  
_stop it dont make me laugh broadys giving me a funny look_

**Swanny**  
_that’s just a function of his funny face. Speaking of which, wasn’t the last time you 3 did photos together when you were all in the buff?_

**Alastair**  
_I’m trying not to think about that_

**Swanny**  
_you should mention it in YOUR interview. go on I dare you._

**Alastair**  
_Did you just text jimmy about that by any chance_

**Swanny**  
_why do you ask…?_

**Alastair**  
_because he just looked at his phone and almost choked. now he’s staring at the pavilion and swallowing a lot_

**Swanny**  
_YES! POINT TO SWANNY!! please mention the naked pic in your interview. PLEASE._

**Alastair**  
_Maybe. ok time for my close-up. joy. speak to you soon_

**Swanny**  
_have fun and do everything I wouldn’t do._

**Alastair**  
_not helpful. especially bc I got that text just when jimmy walking past me! now HES giving me funny looks_

**Swanny**  
_different sort of funny, I imagine. seriously tho, if you don’t do something soon, I’m going to have to get involved. again._

**Alastair**  
_NO please don’t swanny I really want to do this myself_

**Swanny**  
_get a move on, then! neither of you are getting any younger you know_

**Alastair**  
_thanks so much for the pep talk_

**Swanny**  
_any time x_

\--

The evening of the Investec shoot, Jimmy finds he’s taking ages to get ready for dinner with Broady and Ali. He tries on and rejects seven or eight different shirts (plus three pairs of trousers) before he clears a space to sit down on the hotel bed, and admits to himself that he’s in kind of a weird mood.

He hasn’t really had chance to think about why he’s in a weird mood when he gets a text from Broady.

_Sorry bud, got to drop out tonight. Something’s come up last minute._

_No rush_ , Jimmy sends back, _we can wait for you if you need more time_

(Code for: because I definitely need more time.)

The reply comes a few minutes later, just as Jimmy’s weighing up a grey patterned t-shirt he’s already looked at twice.

_Finny’s at a loose end in Nottingham – rest of Middx heading back south for t20 game tomorrow. Reckon he needs supervising._

Jimmy thinks about pointing out that Nottingham’s a good hour and a half drive away; then he gets a mental image of Finny out on the town by himself, and just texts back:

_You’ve got a point. See you tomorrow bright & early_

It’s a moment before he realises that this means he’s out for dinner on his own with Ali.

And there’s the reason for the weird mood. Weird afternoon: an energy (tension?) in the air; a lot of sly glances, shared smiles, offhand comments, brushes that _might_ have been accidental. Edging on flirting, maybe.

Jimmy really doesn’t understand what’s going on between them, anymore. Swanny’s teasing about whether he and Ali were (as he put it) _getting naked again_ like their last shoot together didn’t help. He’s pretty sure Swanny was texting Ali, too, from some of the expressions that crossed the other man’s face as he tapped away at his phone, though Swanny denied it when he asked.

Mostly Jimmy tried to behave himself, to concentrate on the task in hand. Well, except for that one bit when they were all leaning on a railing at the edge of the Headingley pitch and the photographer told them to shuffle closer together and he may possibly have over-interpreted the instruction and ended up flush against Ali like the way they used to sit next to each other on Swanny’s bed in India and Ali was staring off into the middle distance in a way that seemed like maybe he might be hiding something _and_ —

 _Snap out of it_ , he tells himself. He needs to get dressed, and go. Or else come up with a good excuse sharpish.

Broady flaking out on them does solve one problem: what to wear. Jimmy digs through his suitcase, pulls out a purple shirt, an early sample from the range he’s launching with Chess in the autumn. It’s his current favourite shirt, but it’s stayed buried in the depths of his bags since the Sri Lanka series started; his teammates would just take the piss if they saw it, to judge from the amount of stick he’s had about the photos since they went live. (Even from _Finny_ , for god’s sake.) If he had a fiver for every time he’s heard the line _most people take their clothes off before they wash them_ , he could hire a hotel all to himself for the summer and wear whatever he liked.

But he reckons he’s safe tonight: Ali’s not on twitter; he won’t have seen the photos. (In fact, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that the internet hasn’t reached Ali’s farm at all yet. Jimmy’s not sure Ali would notice.) Plus, Ali knows bugger all about clothes, so he’d never recognise the shirt anyway.

So, purple shirt it is. Slim-fitting black trousers. Shoes take a little while, then there’s remedial work to be done with the hair and perhaps a bit too long choosing between aftershaves, but eventually (and only fifteen or twenty minutes late; not bad, considering) he’s strolling into the hotel lounge.

He spots Ali by the bar, and he’s sneaking up behind the other man and poking him in the small of his back before he can really think about whether it’s a wise move, under the circumstances. (Circumstances like the fact that Ali’s standing with Joe and Gaz, for example.)

Ali turns, sharply, but his startlement swiftly gives way to a smile.

“I was starting to think you’d deserted me, too,” he says.

“No chance,” says Jimmy. (And he means it, now, although in truth he did almost chicken out, back upstairs.) He has to remind himself to look away from those dark eyes and greet his other teammates.

Joe barely gives him chance to get a word in. “Jimmy, _you_ want to come out with us, don’t you? Help us persuade Cooky. We’ll show you all the best bars in town.”

It’s a way out, of course: an escape from a potentially awkward dinner alone with Ali, after a day of _were-we-flirting?_

(There are butterflies in his stomach; they’ve been there since the text conversation with Broady, but they’re getting harder to ignore.)

He doesn’t want an escape. He exchanges glances with Ali, gets the slightest shake of the head; which seals the matter.

“Not tonight,” he says to Joe. “Hard day’s modelling, you know. When this next Test’s over, though, definitely.”

Gaz is eyeing Jimmy’s shirt with a smirk. “Talking of modelling,” he says, “isn’t that—”

“We’d better run,” says Jimmy. “Table booked. Have a good night, guys.” And he’s steering Ali away through the lounge with an arm at his waist.

“We have a table booked?” murmurs Ali, with a sidelong glance.

Jimmy lets his arm drop. “No.” He shrugs, and tries to sound casual when he says, “But we could get the concierge to sort us out with something. What do you fancy?”

\--

It’s a relief when the waiter brings their drinks over. Alastair’s an occasional drinker, at most – and not a very good one, as Swanny never tires of reminding him – but this particular evening he’s been dreaming of that first taste of beer. It’s been a long day.

Also, he knows he’s never going to broach _the_ subject without some Dutch courage.

The lager’s chilled enough, and the air warm enough, that there’s condensation on the pint glass; the cold of it is a pleasant shock against his skin as he and Jimmy silently raise their glasses to each other. Alastair takes a long drink, enjoying the rush of fizziness. He puts the glass down, watches moisture collecting in the marks his grip has left in the condensation: the traces of his fingers swell and then spill over, liquid trickling down the sides of the glass to pool on the table-top.

He moves the glass and plays with the water – dragging out streaks from it, like a child’s drawing of the sun – until he thinks about the _child_ part of that comparison and makes himself stop. He looks around the restaurant instead. It’s a little Italian place, suggested by the hotel concierge: low ceilings, dark-carpeted floor, off-white walls adorned with drying bunches of herbs and photographs of Italian footballers and F1 drivers. The windows are tiny, so the place is already candlelit despite the bright evening outside; it’s perhaps three-quarters full, but the tables are well spaced enough that it doesn’t feel crowded. He can smell garlic, and he’s incredibly hungry.

Away to his right, slightly behind Jimmy, he sees a family of five pretending not to look their way. Well, the adults are pretending; the kids are staring, mouths open. He just about catches the woman saying, quietly but firmly, something that sounds like, “Don’t disturb them.”

Alastair can’t help but smile. He clears his throat, and Jimmy looks up from his glass.

“Don’t look now,” Alastair says, “but we’ve been spotted.” He gives a slight nod in the family’s direction.

Jimmy’s eyes widen, and he does look, bringing squeaks of excitement – and more parental admonishment – from the other table. He turns back, quickly.

“Oh, I see. I thought you meant…” He leaves that unfinished, says, “Shall we give them a wave?”

Alastair grins, and they both wave, and there are big smiles all round.

\--

By the time the starters arrive, the lager’s just a memory in their empty glasses and they’ve spent twenty minutes swapping stories about meeting their cricketing heroes (Jimmy: Darren Gough; Ali: Graham Gooch) in random places or (in Jimmy’s case) mostly just watching them from afar.

“Any more drinks?” asks the waiter, as he collects their glasses.

As Ali opens his mouth to reply, Jimmy catches his eye and says, “How about some wine?”

Ali gives Jimmy a look that for the life of him he can’t read. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” he says. He looks down at the table. “We do have training tomorrow…”

“Yeah, you’re right, we should probably leave it,” says Jimmy, trying not to be disappointed and trying not to be annoyed at himself for being disappointed. “Thanks,” he adds, to the waiter, who leaves.

“Idiot,” says Ali, smiling. “You were supposed to persuade me, not agree with me.”

Jimmy signals for the waiter to come back. “Then maybe you should say what you mean.”

He smiles to take the sting out of it, but Ali colours and looks away, and that makes Jimmy think more carefully about _are you trying to get me drunk_. Not that thinking more carefully about it helps. If anything, it just makes everything more confusing.

He needs to tread carefully, but how can he, when he doesn’t know what’s going on?

The waiter’s hovering, patiently.

“Sorry. Change of plan,” Jimmy says. “Can we see the wine list, after all?”

He feels self-conscious, watched by them both as he scans the list, but he picks out a full-bodied red and the waiter compliments him on his selection; maybe because it _is_ a good choice, maybe just because it’s his job to be polite.

After all, who ever says what they mean, really?

\--

When their mains are brought over, Alastair’s laughing so hard he has to put his wine glass down.

“ _Just_ his pants?” he says, as soon as the waiter’s gone.

“Yep. Boogieing away without a care in the world.”

“Well, I suppose if you’re going to get caught dancing around half-naked in any dressing room, it might as well be at Lord’s. Aim high, right?” Alastair gets out his phone. “I _have_ to ask him about this.”

“Don’t! I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Alastair grins, starts typing, reading aloud as he does. “ _Dear Morgs, what’s this I hear about—_ ”

Jimmy lunges forward, snatches at Alastair’s phone. For a long moment everything’s about grabbing stabbing wrestling fingers, as each of them tries to prise the thing away from the other. Then Jimmy takes one hand off the phone and leans further towards him, and Alastair’s jerking away from a burst of sensation under his ribs. After which he has to do a lunge of his own to catch his wine glass before it topples.

“Tickling,” he says, when everything’s been stabilised, “is totally unfair.”

Jimmy’s sitting back, waggling the captured phone at him with a wide smile. “What’s it worth to get it back?”

It turns out Alastair can think of a few things.

He takes a mouthful of wine to settle himself. “I’m not rising to this,” he doesn’t quite manage to say with a straight face. He tries not to dwell on the mental image of Morgs dancing around in his pants, or the fact that his phone’s hiding that terrifically indiscreet conversation he had with Swanny this afternoon.

By way of distraction, he says, “What was the song?”

Jimmy shrugs and slides Alastair’s phone into a tight pocket at his hip, giving Alastair a whole new thing to not think about: reaching in there to get it back. “It was that ‘Happy’, by Pharrell what’s-his-name. Pharrell Williams.”

“Not ringing any bells. How does it go?”

Jimmy laughs. “I’m not singing it for you.”

“Aw, go on.”

“Not on this much alcohol.”

“But all we’ve had is one beer and a glass of wine.”

“Exactly.” Jimmy breaks off, leans further back in his chair. “’Scuse me.” He digs in a pocket. “I’m vibrating.” He pauses. “On both sides.”

So many possible responses to that. Alastair confines himself to raising his eyebrows, which – tragically – Jimmy doesn’t even notice because he’s too busy looking between the two phones. Alastair gives up and takes a forkful of his linguine while he’s waiting.

“Looks like Broady’s rescue mission’s been successful. Him and Finny say hi from Nottingham.”

“So he really did drive all that way.”

Jimmy sniffs, puts down Alastair’s phone, and starts tapping out a reply on his own. “Must be love,” he says, absently.

Alastair’s trying to work out whether this last comment is a joke or not – since his chat with Swanny in Australia about Jimmy, he’s feeling less secure about his instincts with regards to Broady and Finny – when he spots an opening and grabs his phone back. Jimmy’s a fraction too late to stop him.

There’s a brief stalemate. At the other side of the table, Jimmy’s watchful, poised, like he’s preparing to pounce. Alastair feels very warm all of a sudden. Controlling his breath with an effort, he raises hands and phone in surrender.

“I’m putting it away. Why’re you so worried about me texting Morgs, anyway?”

“Mutually assured destruction,” Jimmy says, watching the phone disappear. “Morgs knows everyone’s secrets.”

\--

The desserts find them talking about home.

The family they waved at earlier has just left; at Ali’s urging, they came over to the table on their way out, and he and Jimmy autographed some napkins for the kids. The girl – she was ten or eleven, maybe, and gangly with a growth spurt – went pink when Jimmy asked her who her favourite player was, but instead of saying (as he’d expected) Broady, she whispered, “Charlotte Edwards,” and he grinned at her and felt a pang, thinking about his own daughters.

After that, a conversation about family and parenting seems only natural.

“Not much to tell yet, really,” is Ali’s verdict when Jimmy finishes explaining his daughters’ obsession with Peppa Pig, and asks how fatherhood’s treating him. “Between county games and England duties, I feel like I’ve barely met my daughter yet.”

“I know what you mean. I know it well. How’s Alice holding up?”

“Okay, I think.” Ali twirls the stem of the wine glass between a finger and thumb, his gaze on the remains of the wine sparkling inside it. “It just feels… I don’t know, like two different worlds. Home, and cricket. Being on tour… or even when we’re playing over here. Sometimes I feel guilty about that, but. It is what it is, you know?”

Jimmy lifts a fork towards his tiramisu, then puts it down again. He nods. “My time at home… it’s all fits and starts. Especially on tour. Nothing but skype for months and then this intense… it’s like we all have to get to know each other, all over again.”

(He wonders how much of this is a way justifying, to himself, his feelings about the man sitting across from him.)

“Lonely, sometimes.”

“Yeah. Especially with so many familiar faces gone from the dressing room, too.”

They lapse into silence.

\--

At Alastair’s suggestion, they skip coffee and go straight to the bill. Credit card roulette seems a bit pointless when there’s just two of them, so they split it.

Jimmy says they should ask the restaurant to call a taxi.

“No,” says Alastair, feeling nerves dance in the pit of his stomach. “Let’s walk."


	2. See You Safe Home

It’s the song that he’ll blame, later.

The strains of ‘Happy’ are coming from the bar as they walk past it, and in his infinite wisdom Jimmy just has to pause and say, “Hey, this is the song. The one Morgs was dancing to at Lord’s when I walked in on him.”

The next thing he knows, he’s doing a quick demonstration of the energetic, arse-shaking moves Morgs was making, and Ali’s laughing so he carries on for a bit. Because apparently he’s a complete bloody idiot.

When he finishes, Ali, still grinning, says, “Come on. Let’s go in.”

And the rational part of Jimmy is telling him: _Say no. It’s not difficult. Top tip: if you’re dancing in the street like a loon just to hear the laughter of a guy you already know is straight, it’s time to call it a night._

(Even if said guy seems a bit confused and you’re nurturing a small hope you might benefit from that confusion. Yeah, _especially_ then.)

The irrational part of him, alas, is definitely wavering.

He eyes the lively crowd through the open doors. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Ah, come on. Training doesn’t start until mid-morning. We’ll be _fine_.”

Yeah, Jimmy knows what he _should_ do. But the wine they had with dinner (and the afternoon and evening spent in the company of those arms and those eyes) has blunted the edge of his caution. Without much conviction, he says, “But we should really—”

“I’m pretty sure if your captain says it’s okay, it is.”

Jimmy folds his arms. “And _I’m_ pretty sure that if we’re photographed throwing up outside our hotel at 3am, it’ll be me who gets the blame.”

“So you’re saying you don’t think you can keep up with me?” Ali tilts his head to one side, eyebrows raised and a teasing smile on his lips. “Well, I didn’t want to be the first to say so, old man…”

Jimmy gives up a startled laugh at that. (If he didn’t know better – but he does, right? – he’d be convinced Ali is flirting, now.)

“No…” The denial comes out more archly than he intended, higher-pitched and drawn out and playful, and he realises he’s already lost. “I’m saying no-one’s going to believe that _you_ were a bad influence on _me_.”

“That,” says Ali, “sounds like a challenge.”

There’s a moment of silence between them like a held breath.

And then before Jimmy can stop him, Ali’s heading inside and weaving his way through to the bar, where a tall, animated woman appears only too delighted to watch him pointing to the beers on tap. (Contemplating the way Ali’s pale t-shirt tightens across his shoulders and biceps as he gestures, Jimmy is right there with her.)

He ducks inside, leans against the nearest free patch of wall (like the rest of the pub, it’s a multi-coloured patchwork affair that just about manages to stay the right side of twee), and runs through a list of all the reasons why this whole thing is a terrible, terrible idea. He isn’t quite done by the time Ali is heading over, hands full of drinks and a grin of triumph plastered across his features.

Jimmy raises an eyebrow as he takes two glasses from Ali; one tall, one very, very short. He raises his voice over the music and the chatter. “You got us _shots_?”

“Oh, they came free with the beer. Promotion, I think.”

Jimmy snorts. “Because the woman behind the bar fancies you, more like.”

Ali’s face reddens. His expression is both confused and a bit guilty as he glances back towards the bar.

Jimmy hides a fond smile. “Come on, Cooky,” he says, “you know full well you’re the best-looking guy in this place.”

The other man’s flush deepens. “Are we drinking them, or what?”

Jimmy tilts his head back quickly and gulps down the drink. Fire traces a path down into his chest. There’s other heat, too, lower, as Ali copies him and he watches the other man’s throat, sees him swallow.

Jimmy deposits the shot glass on a table in front of them, then returns to his place against the wall, making himself look at the room at large rather than the man next to him. The vicinity of the bar is brightly lit, full of crowded tables with too many chairs jostling for space around them; at the far end of the room, meanwhile, past three or four pillars painted to look like they’re swathed in ivy, is a small, darker area packed with people dancing.

He wants to stay alert: this many people means a lot of phones, a lot of cameras. Still holding the pint glass, he folds his arms across his chest – protectively, although he doesn’t really know who he’s protecting – and after ten seconds of fierce debate with himself he downs about a third of the lager in one go. The flood of cool bitterness washes away some of the burn of the shot.

Ali settles in beside him. His upper arm is close enough to touch without even shifting position; all Jimmy would have to do is stretch his fingers from where they’re curled around his elbow. Not for the first time, he imagines testing his strength against Ali; grabbing that arm, grabbing both of his arms, digging his fingers into the muscle (like he did that night in Nagpur, only more so) as he forces Ali back against the wall and claims his mouth.

(Or would he lose that battle, find himself pushed against the wall?)

(Or, the thread of fear at the heart of this, the thing that holds him in check: would he find himself pushed _away_? Surely he knows the answer to that, since India: yes. And yet. Something feels different. Maybe. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking and booze.)

The arm in question abruptly nudges into him, and he realises Ali has been talking and he’s been—

“Sorry, miles away. What did you say?”

Ali smiles, looking into his glass. “Nothing important,” he says.

Jimmy takes another long swallow of his beer, and says, “You do know, right, that if you’re being plied with free drinks by the bar staff, it means you have to get all the rounds in for the rest of the night?”

Ali laughs. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jimmy! Of the two of us, who’s the model here?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I bet if you strutted up to the bar, you’d be coming back with free shots too.”

Jimmy splutters. “I do not _strut_!”

“I don’t know,” Ali waves a hand carelessly, “can’t think of the right word. But the way you move. No problem.” He looks at Jimmy. “Talking of which, that’s one of your shirts, isn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t generally wear anyone else’s clothes.”

“No, I mean it’s one of _yours_. The ones you’ve designed. Right?”

(So much for Ali not recognising it. _Shit_.)

“…Yeah. How do you know?”

“Swanny sent me a link to those photos you did.”

Jimmy scowls. Of course he did. Helpful bloody interfering bloody Swanny.

“What’s it… How do you— I mean, being the centre of attention like that. In that way. Do you like it?” Ali takes a quick gulp of his beer, then says, “Sorry, that’s a stupid question, of course you do, or else you wouldn’t do it.”

(Not quite the comment Jimmy was expecting.)

“I do,” he says. Ali looks at him quizzically, and Jimmy realises he muttered that last. “I do,” he repeats, more loudly. He tries to find a way to answer that’s honest, but not _too_ honest. “It feels like… I guess it’s another way of expressing myself. Something else – something creative – I can do with my body, besides cricket. After cricket. I like talking to photographers, trying different things out, seeing the final results.”

“Are you ever surprised by the results?”

“Sometimes. It’s amazing what a difference the lighting can make. Or a… filter.” Jimmy winces, and busies himself in finishing off his pint; he sounds boring even to his own ears.

Ali’s not dropping it. “Well, the shirt suits you, and the photo was…”

Jimmy watches the rest of the bar. (No cameras on them that he can see; doesn’t mean they aren’t there. This isn’t the real reason he’s looking out over the room.) “Go on, mock away. It’s all right. Everyone else has.”

“I was going to say… striking.” From the corner of his eye, Jimmy sees Ali’s gaze take in the shirt for a long moment, before coming back up to his face. “Yeah, striking.” He drains his glass. “Think it’s your round.”

Jimmy swallows, for several reasons, and looks round at the other man. “Is this wise?”

“Absolutely not. But I thought we agreed I’m being a bad influence on you tonight.”

Jimmy doesn’t have an answer, to either the words or the directness of Ali’s gaze, so he goes to the bar instead. Two pints, and two more shots. Which he pays for. (He doesn’t know whether to feel smugly vindicated in his theory about the reason behind the free booze, or mildly put out because he’s not getting the same attention.)

As the woman hands him his change and sorts out a tray for the drinks, they make small talk about how busy the bar is. It’s the end of the university term, she explains: exams over, last few days of celebrating before most go home for the summer.

He pushes back through the crowd to Ali, keeping an even warier eye out for phones pointing their way, now he knows they’re surrounded by students.

“Here you go, bad influence.” He braces the tray as the other man takes his drinks. “All I’m saying is I’m not holding your hair back when you’re hugging the toilet later.”

“And _I’m_ not holding— well, I guess your quiff…” Ali makes a show of examining Jimmy’s hair, tilting his head to one side and the other to get a better view. “…I mean, it’s not like there’s much else to hold back.”

“Oi!” Jimmy says, before shaking his head with a chuckle. “The spirit of Swanny lives on.”

Ali raises his shot glass, beaming fit to light up the room. “To Swanny.”

“Swanny.” (Who would be smug himself, right now, for several reasons.)

The burn feels milder this time. Jimmy knows from experience this is a bad sign. He leaves his pint with Ali and takes the empty shot glasses and the tray back to the bar.

“Nothing wrong with my hair, anyway,” he says, once he’s back and has had some of the beer. “Just because you need a haircut.”

Ali frowns, cups his hand around his ear. “What?”

The music’s got louder, and taken a turn for the retro (80s pop and power ballads: Swanny’d be happy). Jimmy moves closer. “I _said_ you need—” He gives up; short of shouting, he can’t compete with the noise around them. “Tell you later!”

They exchange rueful shrugs. Jimmy shifts to put some space between them.

A few songs later, Jimmy’s carefully not watching as a young blonde woman bounces on her toes on the other side of Ali, hanging onto his shoulder as she yells in his ear. (Ali’s got one hand in his pocket and the other holding his pint, which he uses to gesture at Jimmy.) When she’s gone – absorbed into a gaggle of equally young women on the dancefloor – Ali turns, and his smile is so bashful Jimmy can’t help but meet it with one of his own. “What was that?” he mouths.

Ali leans in to him. “I’ve just been asked to dance!”

Given the noise, there’s not much choice (Jimmy tells himself) but to speak as close to the other man’s ear as he can. He can smell the beer on Ali’s breath, and the faintest trace of his aftershave. “And what did you say?”

Ali’s smile changes. “I said I will, if I can get you to come with me.”

Jimmy feels his own smile grow fixed. “Not really my thing. I’m more of a 90s guy.”

Ali’s hand is on his forearm. Jimmy’s not sure when that happened. “Come on,” Ali says, and it’s the third time he’s said that this evening and the pad of his thumb’s tracing a circle against the underside of Jimmy’s arm (which might be an accident but maybe it’s not), and once again Jimmy has, apparently, absolutely no willpower.

“Okay,” he says, pushing away his awareness that, in an evening of terrible ideas, this may well be the worst. “But if they play ‘Come On Eileen’, I’m out of here.”

He’s saying the last bit to Ali’s back, though; the other man’s already moving. Jimmy finishes his drink and follows him.

For a while he loses himself in the music, or tries to, enjoying the energy of the other revellers, basking in a beer-tinged confidence that lets him move his hips and feet more than he usually would.

But it becomes harder to ignore the one particular man: triangular jaw and too-tight t-shirt, eyes wide with delight and curls of black hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Ali is all beaming abandon, simultaneously friendly and oblivious to the women flocking around him, doubling over with laughter at his own inept efforts to imitate the moves they show him; his sense of the beat is best described as haphazard. (Alcohol versus years of musical training: no contest, apparently.)

Jimmy’s hands burn to touch him: to pull him close, taste his lips, move with him in the ways the music demands. The crowd propels them both like waves moving pebbles on the beach: bringing them together, washing them apart; a regular rhythm, irresistible.

(This is not really true; he _could_ resist, he just chooses not to.)

They drift close enough to touch, and Jimmy does. Once, twice: a brush, a glance; accidental, absorbed in the chorus.

Out, and back. More deliberate this time, a pretend stumble, a hand out for balance, lingering on a shoulder, sliding away down to a shoulderblade, and a little beyond.

Then the opening chords of ‘Living On A Prayer’ ring out; Jimmy’s not a fan, but Swanny played it enough times in the dressing room on victory days that, against Jimmy’s will, it has good associations. For the next few minutes he and Ali have a ball, belting out the words and gesticulating dramatically at each other. By the key change at the end ( _you live for the fight when that’s all that you’ve got_ ) Jimmy’s sort of air guitaring and Ali has one arm flung around Jimmy’s neck and is using the other to punch the air (mostly) in time with the drums.

So the segue into ‘Tainted Love’ is a jolt, in more ways than one.

Jimmy detaches himself from Ali, looking round accusingly for the DJ and half-expecting to see that it’s Swanny, laughing his head off.

Now there’s a hand on his shoulder, another in the small of his back; Ali’s leaning in and saying something, but Jimmy can’t make it out over the music. He turns to him, and the hand at his back (Ali’s hand) moves with him, sliding around until it settles just above his hip.

The warm weight of it feels right in a way he can’t describe, and is suddenly afraid of. Too much at stake, here. Never, he’s sure, were a song’s lyrics more apt.

( _don’t touch me, please_  
 _I cannot stand the way you tease_ )

Jimmy very carefully doesn’t look down, like he might scare the hand away if Ali sees him notice it.

“…another drink?” Ali’s saying.

It’s in Jimmy’s mind to suggest they get out of here, go find somewhere more quiet, but he gives himself a shade too long to think about the implications of that, and retreats from it. Instead he nods, mutely, and if he expects Ali to linger a moment before heading for the bar, he’s disappointed.

He dances out the rest of the song, trying to prove a point to himself, but all he can really think about is the absence of Ali’s touch, and he’s following in the other man’s footsteps before the final notes have faded into the next track.

Ali’s perching on a tall stool, forearms resting on the bar, as his admirer fills a pair of shot glasses in front of him with a flourish. The woman grins at Jimmy as he draws out the stool next to Ali.

“You’re a lucky, lucky man,” she declares.

Jimmy freezes. The new song is quieter; there’s no mistaking her words, no pretending he hasn’t heard. She’s moving away before he can respond, and he hasn’t a clue what he would’ve said anyway. He swears at length, in his head, then clambers awkwardly onto the stool, all too aware, suddenly, of a layer of boozy clumsiness in his movements.

Ali is staring fixedly at his hands.

Jimmy throws back the shot, because it seems easier than the alternatives. Ali does the same, and immediately flags down another of the bar staff, pointing to the empty glasses.

Jimmy blinks. “Are you sure—”

“Yes.” Ali’s handing over coins. He still hasn’t looked at Jimmy.

This time, when he drinks, Ali presses his hand – still holding the emptied glass – against his mouth. Jimmy sees his throat heave.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m calling it. Time to head back.”

“I’m fine,” says Ali through his fingers. He hiccups.

Jimmy snorts. “Remember what I said about not holding back your hair? Goes double if you throw up all over these nice people’s bar.”

He orders a bottle of water and a couple of glasses. Ali has uncovered his mouth, but he ignores the water Jimmy pours for him, cradling the shot glass and still not looking up. He hiccups again, then groans. “You must think I’m such a lightweight.” He can’t make it to the end of the sentence without another hiccup.

Jimmy hides a smile, and finds himself brushing a stray strand of hair out of Ali’s face. ( _Cut that out, for fuck’s sake_ , he tells himself.) He clasps his hands together. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you fall over after the first pint or drink me under the table. I’ve had fun tonight.”

(Tense, charged, much too seductive fun.)

“Me too.” (Hiccup.) “Ow.”

Jimmy abruptly remembers something Swanny showed him once. “I can cure you!” He picks up the glass of water. “Right, so. You put your fingers in your ears, and I hold this up for you to drink from.”

Ali eyes him suspiciously (but at least he’s finally looking up); after a moment, he does as he’s told. Jimmy lines the glass up with Ali’s mouth – using both hands, not trusting his co-ordination at this stage of the evening – and tilts it. He slightly overpitches at first, and water escapes around the side of the glass faster than Ali can gulp it down, but they adjust and soon the glass is empty.

Ali takes his fingers from his ears slowly. His face brightens as he breathes normally, and goes on doing. His smile is dazzling. “That’s amazing.” He wipes away the stray drops that have trickled down his chin, which on balance is lucky because Jimmy was about to do it, and goodness knows where that might have ended up. “Thanks!”

Jimmy glows, but affects unconcern. “No problem.”

He reaches for the water bottle, and then it’s his turn to stare intensely at his glass rather than looking up because Ali’s tone when he speaks again is completely changed, and he thinks he knows what he hears in it.

“Jimmy, I want to… There’s something—” Ali slurs the _something_ , and draws in a breath that’s sharp with frustration. From the corner of his eye, Jimmy sees him scrub both hands through his hair and drag them down his face. “Bloody, bloody alcohol. It gives you all this… this freedom to say things you normally wouldn’t. And then makes it really hard to actually, you know, get words out.”

Jimmy gives a mirthless laugh at that. His face feels hot enough to boil the water he’s holding. “Shall we head off, then? It’s getting late—”

“Say what I mean, right?” The other man sways a bit on his stool. “You. And me. There’s a… We…”

“Ali, no.” There are complicated things happening in Jimmy’s chest. “Don’t. You’re drunk, and… Don’t say something you’ll regret in the morning.”

He wants, he seriously could not want more, this to be what it looks like. He’s drunk and horny and tired of holding back. But he can’t take advantage of Ali in this state. He knows what the real answer is, the one not fuelled by alcohol, and it’s no.

( _It was a mistake_ , Ali said, the night after, in Nagpur. _I was drunk and I led you on._ He’s not going through that again.)

(Also, how many people might be overhearing this, photographing this, right now?)

Ali vents a noise of annoyance. “No… It’s not like—”

Jimmy reaches for Ali’s hand; just briefly, but the other man stops, instantly. “Come on,” Jimmy says. “Somewhere quieter.” He grabs the water bottle and makes for the open air.

Ali is stumbling as they get outside. Once they’re a decent distance from the bar Jimmy drapes one of Ali’s arms around his neck and fits one of his own around Ali’s waist, but it’s more in the cause of holding him up than anything else. Soon they’re wandering downhill through what Jimmy guesses is the university campus, and he steers them off down a relatively secluded-looking path, through a stand of slender trees and short, thorny little bushes, lit by knee-high lamps. He spots Ali’s chest heaving just in time to support the other man as he loses his dinner over the greenery.

Jimmy keeps his promise about not holding back Ali’s hair, but he does stroke his back a bit and, at length, hand him the water bottle to rinse his mouth.

“Sorry,” Ali croaks at last. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—”

“Don’t worry. Happens to us all.” He guides Ali over to a bench, rejecting the nearest – too brightly lit and right under a CCTV camera – for one more sunk in shadow. He thinks the coast is clear around them, but you can never be sure. “You probably won’t remember in the morning, anyway. Not sure I will.”

“Oh,” says Ali, as he sinks down. “But… That’s not good either…”

Jimmy sits beside him. It seems the most natural thing in the world to put his arm around the other man. As he does, he’s struck quite forcibly by how broad Ali’s shoulders are. (His pulse is racing.)

Ali leans into him, resting his head somewhere around Jimmy’s collarbone.

“Don’t think my chest is very comfortable,” Jimmy says.

“Perfect,” Ali mumbles. His arms snake around Jimmy’s waist.

Jimmy hesitates for a moment, then rests a hand on Ali’s thick hair. A moment or two later, a soft snore drifts up from the other man.

Jimmy sighs, lightly kisses the crown of Ali’s head. “Beautiful man,” he whispers into his hair. “I want you so much right now I don’t even know how to...” He shakes his head. “But we both have commitments. And I know it was just the alcohol talking tonight.”

(Not that his feelings for Ali change his love for his wife. Or the other way round. But.)

He grins up at the moon. “Also, you’ve just thrown up and passed out, which puts a bit of a dampener on things.”

He looks back down at the sleeping man, tries not to think about this being the first and last time they’ll sit like this, carelessly entangled. No point regretting what can’t be.

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you safe home when you wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is pure self-indulgence. I originally wrote this chapter about four months ago, long before I'd done any of the stuff set in India (or what comes after), and it's basically become redundant in the meantime: it's not as if 'Jimmy and Alastair have UST' is exactly a revelation by this point ;) But I'm very fond of several moments in it, so even though it's a bit rough around the edges, I decided to lightly revise it and post it anyway.
> 
> So: sorry not sorry for dragging this out for one more week :D


	3. Now Or Never

**Alastair**  
_I blew it_

**Swanny**  
_with Jimmy? What happened?_

**Alastair**  
_Too much dutch courage. FAR too much. enough to sink Brussels_

**Swanny**  
_Cooky, dear, Brussels is in Belgium._

**Alastair**  
_shut up I know that. not the point_

**Swanny**  
_what did you say?_

**Alastair**  
_Nothing that made any sense_

**Swanny**  
_and what did he say?_

**Alastair**  
_polite things. stop talking to me you strange drunk person things. except polite._  
_next thing I remember we were in a taxi_  
_And I’m 95% sure i was sick in front of him oh my god_

**Swanny**  
_calm down, it’ll be fine. I’m sure he’ll have forgotten about it by the end of the summer. 2018._

**Alastair**  
_you are the worst person ever_

**Swanny**  
_and yet you both keep texting me_

**Alastair**  
_You’ve heard from him? what did he say?_  
_Swanny??_

**Swanny**  
_my lips are sealed_

**Alastair**  
_come on!_

**Swanny**  
_you wouldn’t want me to tell him what you’ve said, would you? so don’t ask me to spill the beans on him_

**Alastair**  
_that’s very honourable. and very unhelpful._

**Swanny**  
_yes. But I’m turning into the personification of dramatic irony, so there’s that._

**Alastair**  
_ha ha_  
_switching my phone off now for training. examine your conscience Graeme_

**Swanny**  
_it’s just fine xx_

\--

Hands sweating inside his gloves, deep breath caught somewhere in his chest, Jimmy takes guard for the final over of the second Test against Sri Lanka.

The first ball’s a statement of intent: short, bouncing up around his neck. It forces him back, but he manages to get it down. It drops harmlessly at his feet; is collected by short leg.

They came into the final day already five down. All day, the dressing room has been submerged in silent anxiety, in a pessimism no-one has quite wanted to admit to.

They all knew (word got round before play even started) that no team five wickets down at the start of a final day had ever saved a Test. But with Rooty and Mo in, there was still a thread of hope, one that grew with the rain delay and continued as the overs ticked by after lunch. One their captain tried, gently, to nurture: it wasn’t impossible, was it, that they’d bat out the day?

Then, an hour after lunch, Joe showed a thick outside edge to a full-length ball. Up in the dressing room, Jimmy closed his eyes against the sight; he could already see the moment he’d have to walk out to the crease.

The thread of hope, already fragile, started to fray.

\--

The second ball is short again, but its bounce lacks the bite of the first. Even so, Alastair – watching from the balcony – digs his nails into his palms until Jimmy’s angled it safely to gully.

At tea, with Matty gone and Chris the latest man to share the crease with Mo, Alastair escaped for a couple of minutes to be by himself, and breathe. He almost wishes he could do that again, now; keeping up the smiles for the other guys is getting unbearable. He can’t remember the last time he was this tense in the closing stages of a match.

 _It’s the hope that gets you_ , he thinks. Not the clatter of wickets; it’s being this close.

Needing a distraction while Angelo Mathews tweaks his field, needing to do something other than stare intently at the men either end of the wicket down there – at the one man in particular – Alastair turns his phone on, keeping it low and out of sight of the TV cameras. Finds a message from Swanny.

_if he pulls this off you’re going to show him your appreciation, right?_

Alastair rolls his eyes, and texts back.

_Is that really all you can think about at a time like this?_

The response is almost instant.

_tell me you weren’t. go on._

Alastair turns his phone off again, takes a couple of even deeper breaths, and resumes biting his nails.

\--

Third ball; short again. Jimmy sends it into the off side. (The Sri Lankan fielders, crowded round the wicket, chatter ostentatious approval of the bowling.)

It was a surprise when Eranga started limbering up to deliver the final over. They’d been expecting more of Herath, and since Jimmy had been dealing with spin just fine for the past hour, it’d seemed safe enough.

Getting ready for the next ball, Jimmy tries not to think about the fact that Eranga caught and bowled him in the first innings. Instead he remembers Moeen making his maiden century: unflappable Mo, a tower of slender, obdurate strength (and mighty beard) all day, raising his bat in acknowledgement but not even taking off his helmet.

Jimmy was grateful he’d lasted long enough for Mo to make it to the ton, but Mo’s view on things was clear: job still to be done.

Without wanting to get sentimental, it was inspiring.

\--

A change of tactics: the fourth ball’s fuller, and Jimmy comes down the wicket a bit to block it with a sturdy bat. The crowd, deep in beer snake territory for the better part of the past five hours, cheers as if he’s hit a boundary.

(“My legs are going like the clappers, here,” says Swanny, unable to sit still up in the TMS commentary box; he’s certain, now, they’re going to save it.)

When Broady’s wicket went, just before six o’clock, Jimmy hauled himself to his feet like his limbs were almost too heavy to move. Without meaning to, Alastair met his gaze from across the balcony, and his throat seemed to freeze up. By the time he felt able to say something, Jimmy was already out of the door; Alastair gave chase, caught him at the top of the stairs.

“Jimmy,” he said, and the other man stopped, turned to him. His expression was difficult to read behind the grille of his helmet, but there was resignation in his eyes.

“Spirit of Cardiff, Jimmy!” a voice from just outside yelled, and they exchanged tense smiles.

“At least it’s not Monty at the other end,” said Jimmy.

“Mo knows what he’s doing. And not getting out… it’s something you’re good at.” Alastair swallowed. “We’ve made them work for it all day, and it’s not over yet.”

“We’ll do it,” said Jimmy, and he was looking away, out towards the field, but there was something in his voice that made Alastair’s stomach flip. “For the team. For you.”

And then he was off down the steps before Alastair could reply – and he’s still not sure what he would’ve said, in any case.

\--

There’s a field change before the fifth delivery, the penultimate ball of the day: Herath gets moved to leg gully.

Eranga retreats, begins his run up. He goes short again, and the ball pitches up: another bouncer, head height this time.

No time to think. Jimmy’s bat’s rising to fend it off like it has a mind of its own.

(“Jimmy Anderson couldn't do anything else – his natural reactions just took over,” Swanny will say, in a few minutes’ time, on TMS.)

Jimmy feels the impact, hears the fatal sound of it taking the edge. He doesn’t see where it goes, but he can’t miss the whoop as the catch is taken behind him: it’s Herath, after all, newly installed at leg gully.

Something in him breaks.

(A collective sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, ripples across the balcony and through the dressing room.)

Jimmy leans on his bat; drops to his knees. With the fight so abruptly snatched away, he has nothing left except adrenaline: enough of it to make him retch.

The Sri Lankans converge, become a giddy pile of limbs.

Mo’s at his shoulder, he’s saying something, but Jimmy can’t hear past the roaring in his ears.

(Up on the balcony, Alastair feels like he’s been punched in the gut. There’s no breath left in him.)

\--

There’s something, somehow, comforting about the closing rituals of cricket: lining up to shake hands with the umpires, with every member of the opposing team, with the backroom staff. Alastair’s gut-punch feeling persists, but for a while it’s dulled by dutiful routine.

Anyone who spends enough time on the international stage perfects the face of polite solemnity for the cameras. It’s something to retreat into.

Then the other part of the ritual kicks in – the post-match presentations – and the ache in Alastair’s gut spreads to his chest as he watches Jimmy take the dais in the evening sunshine. Jimmy struggles through his answer to Athers’ first question; trapped between tears and an embarrassed smile, he stops, pinches the bridge of his nose. Doesn’t go on.

Alastair bites his lip to control his own emotion. The Man of the Series award seemed like a worthy recognition just a few moments ago; now it resembles an ordeal.

\--

Back in the pavilion, Jimmy can’t face the dressing room straight away. He’s not in the mood for consoling pats and pitying voices.

As he did once before at Headingley, not far off two years ago, he wanders, looking for somewhere to be alone. He’s barely aware of where he’s going, this time; one foot in front of the other is about his limit.

He pushes through a half-open door, finds himself a long, blue-carpeted room; deserted, lights off, fireplace down one end and a table arrayed with neat rows of glasses and unopened bottles of wine down the other. High, narrow windows offer a view over the quickly emptying ground.

Jimmy averts his eyes from the pitch, heads for the fireplace. The mantelpiece is shoulder height; he braces both arms against it, rests his head against them, does his best not to think for a while.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there when he hears footsteps stopping on the threshold, the door swinging inwards.

There’s a mirror above the mantelpiece. He doesn’t need to look in it to guess who’s coming in.

He does anyway.

\--

On his way through the endless corridors of the pavilion, Alastair plans it all meticulously in his head, what he’ll say when he finds Jimmy: no press conference platitudes (he’s had his fill of those after twenty minutes in front of the microphones); no taking the positives.

 _Say what you mean_. That’s what Jimmy himself told him, back before the start of the Test, and it applies to this as much as it does to anything else. The result today, the way it ended, is a bitterly unfair pill to swallow and there’s no point pretending otherwise.

There are times when you do something heroic, and still it’s not enough. No-one blames Jimmy; everyone’s hurting for him.

These words and more all drain away as he rounds the door of the reception room, finally sees Jimmy. The other man’s got his back to him, is standing tall by a fireplace, gripping the mantel hard in both hands; his face, reflected in a wide mirror just in front of him, is ghost-pale.

“Cooky,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t…” He pushes himself away from the fireplace, then slams his hands back against it. “I hate batting. Fucking _hate_ it.” His hands meet the wood again; the sharp, hollow smack is loud in the empty room.

Alastair, alarmed, is already moving before the sound of the second impact rings out; he hovers behind the other man, caught in uncertainty.

“Jimmy, hey. Come on.” He reaches out, touches a palm to a shoulderblade; holds it there. “You remember what happened with Stokesy and that locker, right?”

Jimmy shoves him off with a snarl, so hard that Alastair stumbles back a few steps.

And Alastair’s darting back in again without a thought, putting himself between Jimmy and the fireplace this time, between Jimmy’s suddenly balled fist and the mirror. He grabs hold of the other man by the elbows, pins his arms against his body.

“Jimmy,” he says, sharply. “ _Jimmy_. Listen to me.”

Jimmy struggles against him, and Alastair has to strain, but he hangs on, until Jimmy is forced to stillness and his reddened eyes shed some of their distance, focus on Alastair’s face.

Alastair takes an overdue breath, moves his hands up to the other man’s shoulders.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “You should never have been in that position. The rest of us shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

Jimmy’s breathing hard. “I let you down. Fending off that ball like a _useless_ fucking—”

“ _No_.” Alastair tightens his grip on Jimmy’s angular shoulders. “You didn’t. You were amazing.” He grits his teeth, forces out a painful admission. “If I’d done my job with the bat, none of this would be happening.” Over Jimmy’s protest, he says, “It’s _my_ responsibility, as captain. My fault.”

“No, it’s—” Jimmy chokes himself off. After a long moment, a crooked half-smile sneaks onto his face, and he wipes at his eyes. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Well, this is no good. At this rate we’ll be here all night going _blame me! No, blame me!_ ”

Alastair relaxes, a fraction, but he’s still watching Jimmy; still wary. “I’m not letting you take it all on yourself.”

 _And I’m_ not _letting you hurt yourself_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. The ache in his chest hasn’t gone away.

“Yeah, well, same.” Jimmy’s voice is gruff, but quieter, now. He raises a hand; it settles, cool, across one of Alastair’s, which is still resting on Jimmy’s shoulder.

For a long moment Alastair can only look at their two hands, touching. He feels disconnected from the sight, like he’s watching from a distance. Then Jimmy’s fingertips curl around Alastair’s hand, start stroking the underside of his wrist: tiny movements, so small you might not notice. Unless you’re looking for them; unless something in you has become attuned to, hyper-aware of, every movement – every touch – of this other man.

He remembers Ahmedabad, the rebel hand tracing spirals on his arm. What that was leading to.

Since the moment when the catch was taken, this has been the furthest thing from Alastair’s mind; but just like that, the dam breaks.

And he thinks: _Now or never_.

Quickly, so he won’t have time for second thoughts, he slides his unoccupied hand from Jimmy’s shoulder to the back of his neck. He catches the beginnings of a startled look on Jimmy’s face before he closes his eyes and takes the shot: it’s a lunge more than it’s a lean – an act of desperation, of distraction, every bit as much as it’s one of desire – but in an instant he’s pressing his lips against Jimmy’s.

No response. Alastair’s heart lurches; his face heats.

That moment: when you take the stroke and realise you’ve accidentally skied the ball, when you can only stand there, for a suspended instant, watching the ball soar far too high in the air and waiting for it to come down into the fielder’s grateful hands—

But sometimes it turns out you’ve hit it better than you thought.

Jimmy’s other arm comes round Alastair’s back, pulling him closer, and his mouth opens. Alastair feels fingers burying themselves in his hair, and suddenly he’s being kissed more fiercely than anything he’s ever experienced or imagined: firm lips, powerful jaw, urgent rhythm; and, after a few moments, aggressive tongue. He hears a moan, suspects it’s his own, doesn’t care because he’s so deliciously helpless in the face of this. He tightens his grip at the nape of Jimmy’s neck, frees his other hand and lets it rove down the other man’s taut chest, to a lean, narrow hip. Alastair digs his fingers in, presses harder into the kiss.

Abruptly, Jimmy breaks off; doesn’t just let go, but actually holds Alastair away from him, almost at arm’s length.

“Ali, wait. What about…” He stops, swallows. He still looks haunted. “In… in India, you said—”

Alastair cuts him off. “Ignore what I said—” _Start again_ ; he needs some stronger expression than that. “ _Fuck_ what I said in India. Right? I was lying. And stupid.” His heart’s racing. He fixes Jimmy’s gaze with his own. “You told me to say what I mean. You didn’t believe me when I tried, last week. Well. Here it is again. Sober. I want you, okay? I _want_ you.” His throat closes; he’s dizzy with the rush of the kiss and with the effect of finally saying it, after so long. “It’s maybe not a great time. But there’s never going to be a good time. I’ve been waiting a year and a half for another chance at this. And can you please say _something_ , so I can stop talking?”

For a moment Jimmy looks, if anything, more startled; then the set of his mouth sharpens into hunger, and he’s drawing Alastair back against him, into another kiss.

Alastair’s just starting to push Jimmy away from the fireplace, towards the wall, when there’s a babble of voices from somewhere nearby.

They scramble apart, turn in horrified unison to look. The door to the reception room is opening inwards, and it’s simple luck that he and Jimmy are on the hinge side, not immediately visible to what Alastair realises are the club members, strolling in for pre-dinner drinks.

Jimmy hastily straightens his t-shirt, wipes the shine of saliva from his mouth. On a sudden whim, Alastair half-turns to him, catches his eye – and instead of wiping his own mouth, he wets his lips.

Jimmy’s breath hitches, and his eyes widen. Alastair feels a glow of satisfaction as he turns back to face the approaching figures, smoothing his expression into a polite smile.

“Just wait,” Jimmy says, low in his ear. “I’ll deal with that smirk.”

Then there’s no time for anything else – there are club members, delighted with the unexpected dressing-room delegation, to be greeted – and the promise lingers between them, tantalising.

\--

Ten minutes’ small talk with captain and star bowler has probably done wonders for England’s standing with the venerable members of YCCC, but being reminded (over and over again) of what just happened out on the field isn’t exactly the tonic Jimmy needed to improve his mood.

By the time they’ve made their excuses and left, he’s upset again, and surly with it; Ali tries his best, but Jimmy’s snapped at him twice before they’ve even made it to the bottom of the stairs to the dressing room.

The third time, Ali stops. “Do you need a minute before we go up?”

Jimmy swallows an irritable sigh, looks at the other man properly for the first time since – well, maybe for the first time today, in fact. The head tilt of concern, the tension in his jaw, the dark hair still in disarray from Jimmy’s own hands.

On that thought, Jimmy remembers that before the members came in the room, there was a brief interlude where he’d forgotten the end of the match, sort of. He wants that back, wants to lose himself again in the utterly unexpected revelation of shared desire.

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t say no to another smooch.”

It’s meant to be light; playful. But Jimmy can’t quite make himself smile as he’s pushing Ali against the wall, and the raw place in him that keeps replaying that final ball (that last unneeded swipe of the bat) leaks hurt into the kiss, turning it into something ragged.

He stops; eyes closed, holding Ali’s hips, resting his forehead against the other man’s. But _holding_ and _resting_ make it sound softer than it is: he’s clutching at Ali, and his forehead’s pressing into him so hard he must be forcing the other man’s head back against the wall. He knows he needs to stop, to let go and step away, but Ali’s hands are firm at his waist, anchoring him, and Jimmy hangs on, rides out the wave.

And almost before the wave’s receded, he can feel his body starting to wake up to Ali’s closeness. He decides to help it along. He takes a breath, slides his hands round from Ali’s hips to his backside (the other man moves, slightly, to make space between himself and the wall), and covers Ali’s mouth with his own for a slower, deeper, longer kiss than any they’ve shared so far.

When they come up for air, he takes in Ali’s slightly swollen lips, the hazy look in his eyes, the pace of his breaths, and grunts his satisfaction.

“What?”

“Just admiring my handiwork.” (This time, he manages playful.)

Ali rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Are you always this smug?”

“I’ve just pulled my captain. Think I’m entitled.”

Ali gives a sort of pretend-outraged laugh. “Excuse me, who got the ball rolling back there? I think you’ll find _I_ pulled _you_.”

His hands are moving, down to Jimmy’s hips, where the pads of his thumbs start stroking back and forth just under the waistband of Jimmy’s trousers, just below the line of tucked-in shirt. It’s a bit of an effort to concentrate on, well, words.

“Yeah,” says Jimmy, “but I started it.”

“How? When?”

“In India.”

“You mean that night you kidnapped me?”

There’s something about Ali’s smile. (And the memory of that night.) Jimmy can’t resist leaning in.

“Kidnapped’s a bit strong,” he murmurs into Ali’s ear, before starting to kiss his way down the other man’s neck (Ali catches his breath, raises his chin), towards the base of his throat. “You were free to leave at any time.”

Ali’s laugh is breathless; Jimmy, lips still moving down his throat, feels him swallow. “Free to leave? Are we talking about the same night?”

Jimmy squashes the urge to say, _If you weren’t free to leave, you’d have known about it_. (There’s such a thing as moving too fast. And the mental images are really distracting.) He tightens his hold on Ali’s backside. “It was all perfectly innocent. Until it wasn’t.”

“Until you dragged me into that lift and, as previously mentioned, kidnapped me.”

“Details.” He sucks, lightly, at the skin around the hollow of Ali’s throat. He’s telling the truth, mostly: it started as a spur-of-the-moment thing, a giddy sort of don’t-go-yet thing. And then it felt good and Ali responded in interestingly suggestive ways, so… “It was a good night.”

Ali goes still. When Jimmy raises his head to see what’s going on, the other man says, quietly, “Shame about the night after. What I said.”

“It’s not an easy thing. Understandable you’d be freaked out.”

Ali’s smile is rueful. “I was mortified. I thought you were cheating on Swanny.”

“I… You— What?” is all Jimmy manages in response to that, before there’s an urgent buzzing somewhere near the top of his thigh. He raises an eyebrow at Ali, and then both of them are grinning at each other.

Ali reaches for his pocket; Jimmy catches his wrist. “Few more minutes,” he says.

“It might be important.”

“Then don’t look. If you don’t know about it, not important.”

“That makes no sense.” Ali jerks his hand, but Jimmy doesn’t loosen his grip.

He can feel Ali’s pulse jumping under his fingers. “It makes horny guy sense.”

“Exactly. Come on, I have to check it.”

Jimmy sighs, and lets go.

“Dressing room,” says Ali, once he’s read the message. “They’re wondering where we are.”

“See. Told you not to look.” Jimmy plants his hands on Ali’s chest, pushes him more firmly back against the wall. “No good ever comes of being responsible at times like these.”

(Truth be told, he doesn’t want to go; doesn’t want the facts of the evening, of the series loss, to come crashing back in. He likes this version of reality better, the one that’s just the two of them and an empty corridor, and groping.)

He takes advantage of Ali’s hesitation, brushes his lips against the other man’s, once, twice, more; lets his hands roam, a fingertip lingering over the bump of a nipple, tracing a circle on the fabric around it. Teasing, enticing, withholding, until the other man makes a noise of frustration and tugs sharply at Jimmy’s shirt, pulling him closer and encouraging (demanding) something more. Jimmy obliges.

When they’re done this time, Ali keeps his eyes closed, and lets loose an unsteady sigh.

“Okay,” he says, wetting his lips. “Okay.”

When nothing else is forthcoming, Jimmy grins. (Helplessly turned-on Ali looks and sounds even better than he imagined.) “Okay what?”

Ali opens his eyes, swallows. “Okay. We have to go to the dressing room. And I have to go home tonight. But. Um. Suggestion.” His voice takes on an edge of uncertainty. “I don’t… I don’t have to leave right away. How about we sort of… hang around? When everyone else is gone?”

Jimmy goes in hard and fast: kisses Ali until the other man moans, until he has no breath left, until his own skin’s stinging from the friction of stubble; until the heat in his groin’s turned into pressure against the box in his underwear.

“Deal,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it was the climax of this Test in all its agonising glory that turned me from a run-of-the-mill cricket fan into a shipper. (No, I've no idea either why my response to the defeat should have been "I wonder if there's any cricket fic out there?" and "MUST SHIP COOK AND ANDERSON RIGHT NOW"; trauma does strange things to you, I guess?)
> 
> I was listening to TMS for the majority of the final day. I double-checked the details using the text commentaries [at the BBC](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/cricket/27988537) and [Cricinfo](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-sri-lanka-2014/engine/match/667901.html?innings=4;page=1;view=commentary). The second comment from Swanny (not the texts, obviously...) was quoted on the BBC page; the first is something I remember him saying, but I may be wrong about *when* he said it.
> 
> Finally, sometimes there's no substitute for video: [here's Jimmy being sad at the post-match presentation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPNSXq4vl0k) :(
> 
> \--
> 
> In terms of fic continuity: the events in India that Jimmy & Alastair refer to here were covered in my earlier fic, ['Five Rooms, Four Nights, Three Cities, Two Guys - and That One Friend of Theirs'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2433776/chapters/5388554). The kidnapping, the kiss, and the denial all happened in chapter 4 of this; chapter 2 is where Jimmy first tells Swanny he has a secret thing for Ali.


	4. Second Guessing

It takes bloody ages for the rest of the team to clear out of the dressing room.

In his corner over near the showers, Jimmy potters around, trying to look busy without making too much progress. He doesn’t want to run the risk of actually being ready to leave any time soon. The others give him space, which is fine (more than fine), except that it means there’s not much to distract him from sneaking looks at Ali. Who’s sneaking looks at him.

(Tentative glances, like they’re reminding themselves. That really did just happen. That man over there, he really _did_ just…)

It’s a long, long time since Jimmy’s got involved with a teammate. Or whatever this is. Maybe _involved_ is the wrong word; maybe tonight’s just a one-off. Maybe he should stop second guessing, and just see how it goes.

(Fleeting glances, like they’re afraid someone will catch them. Surely everyone can see it, what’s happening between them? Surely it’s written across their faces?)

He’s forgotten the heady, terrifying riskiness. What it’s like to run the dressing room gauntlet, in the head as much as in reality; to have a shared secret simmering away beneath every smile, every syllable, every gesture. Bad for the blood pressure, but definitely part of the appeal.

(Searing glances, filled with promises and possibilities. Not that Jimmy needs much encouragement to imagine how they might pick up where they left off.)

In between the looks, Ali’s moving round the room, speaking to each man individually: consoling, consulting, chuckling, whatever’s needed. Jimmy pushes away the thought of why it’s needed, fiddles with his phone, rummages through his kitbag, looks up from time to time (okay, more often than that) to watch his captain’s arse moving in his grubby whites.

His own chat done, Moeen stands, shouldering his bag. He looks across at Jimmy, wavers a bit, so Jimmy goes over to him.

“Sorry your maiden century happened on such a gloomy day,” Jimmy says. _Sorry I was the cause of the gloom_ , he doesn’t say.

“Gutted by the way it ended, though.”

“Yeah, well. It won’t always be like that.” (He knows this, logically, even if he doesn’t entirely feel it right now.) “See you soon.”

Mo’s smile is shy. “Hope so.”

They exchange the nods of guys who’ve been into battle together and still don’t feel the need to talk too much, then Mo’s heading off, collecting a fresh round of handshakes and pats on the back along the way. A few of the others follow him out as Jimmy wanders back over to his corner.

He’s settling in to ogle Ali some more while he waits for the rest to piss off (in the nicest possible way) when, with a striking lack of fair play, Ali gathers up his stuff and makes for the showers.

Jimmy folds his arms. Fine. If Ali’s leaving the field, he’s going to give him something to think about while he’s away.

“Better not be a cold shower,” he says, in an undertone, as Ali’s about to pass him.

Ali breaks stride, almost drops his bundle. He looks over. His gaze rakes Jimmy from head to toe, then comes back up to rest on his face.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who could do with one,” he murmurs.

He’s moving away before Jimmy (mouth open, no sound coming out) has chance to recover and explain that the bump in his trousers is actually his _box_ , thank you very much. He runs his tongue along his teeth, looks down at his feet, smiles ruefully, plots revenge. Once he’s sure no-one’s watching, he stands, turns his back to the room and sorts himself out, taking the offending bit of plastic out of his underwear. (It’s kind of a relief. He’s not planning to admit that.)

He sits back down, starts unlacing his boots. He can hear the water running in the shower. It would be pretty great if everyone left right now, and then he could go and invade Ali’s personal space.

(Probably unwise. He’d lay good odds that Ali’s new to this. Doesn’t want to scare him off.)

The others gradually filter out. Joe comes over and gives Jimmy a hug, which is a bit much but, heroically, Jimmy puts up with it. By the time Ali emerges from the shower – wet hair plastered to his head, and fully dressed, disappointingly (in the dark blue training kit, now) – the only ones left are Belly, heading out of the door with a wave, and Broady, putting the last few things into his kitbag.

Jimmy remembers, with a jolt of alarm, that he’s supposed to be giving Broady a lift back to the hotel. He’s running through a list of increasingly unlikely ways to get him out of the room when Broady, happily, saves him the need.

“Think I’m going to sit downstairs and drown my sorrows. See you down there?”

Jimmy hides his relief. “Er… yeah. I just need a shower. I’ll be fi—” (he catches Ali’s look) “…twenty minutes. Or so.”

“Sure, whenever you’re ready.”

Jimmy grunts. He meets Ali’s gaze, and holds it as they both listen to the sound of Broady’s footsteps fading down the corridor.

And now, finally, they really are alone.

Jimmy clears his throat, pushes himself to his feet before second guessing can get the better of him. He keeps his eyes on Ali as he walks across the room, watching colour creep into the other man’s cheeks, his lips parting. He stops right in front of him, holds out a hand.

Ali looks at the hand for a moment, with a faint smile. “It’s just like…”

He doesn’t finish the thought; instead he grabs Jimmy’s forearm, hauls himself up. “Hi,” he says, and he’s looking down and Jimmy can hear the nervousness in him.

With both hands, Jimmy pushes the wet hair back from Ali’s forehead, then trails damp fingertips down either side of his face, along his jaw, to meet under his chin, which he tilts up towards him. “Hello,” he says, leaning in. A couple of soft, teasing pecks at the corners of Ali’s mouth is all it takes, and then, just like that, the other man’s snatching the kiss himself like he hasn’t a nervous bone in his body.

Jimmy’s luxuriating in the curve of Ali’s lower back under his hands, in the sensation of their tongues moving against each other, when he feels the other man shake, hears him snort, realises he’s laughing.

He pulls back, frowning. “This really isn’t the reaction I was hoping for.”

Ali bites his lip, but he can’t really stop an abashed grin. He’s lucky it makes him look even hotter.

“Sorry. I was just thinking about—”

“Thinking’s bad. Don’t think. Just do.”

They resume, briefly. Then Ali’s breaking off again.

“Thinking isn’t _all_ bad…”

“Wrong.” Jimmy reaches up and administers a pinch to one of Ali’s nipples; takes advantage of the other man’s gasp to reclaim his mouth.

When Ali disrupts proceedings this time, he takes hold of Jimmy’s hands, pre-emptively.

“I _mean_ —” (there’s a bit of a mock struggle, as Jimmy fights to get his fingers in poking range; eventually he lets Ali have this one) “…sometimes you think of useful things. For example, door.”

“Door?” For a moment Jimmy’s puzzled. Then light dawns. “Door.”

“Door.”

Ali lets go of him and strides over to the door, which is slightly ajar; he glances out to check the corridor’s clear, then closes it properly and turns the lock. Jimmy uses his long-overdue chance to stare, openly: enjoys the smooth glide of muscle under tanned skin as Ali reaches up to fiddle with the blind over the frosted window pane on the door, causing his shirt to tighten in all sorts of fascinating ways… and why the hell (it occurs to Jimmy) is he wasting time just watching?

On the thought, he’s moving, up behind Ali a heartbeat later, sliding one hand around the other man’s waist – he’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath – and tracing a shoulderblade through the tight shirt with the other. He gets to work kissing the side of Ali’s neck.

Ali finally works the blind loose, and it tumbles down with a clatter. He tries to turn, hungrily seeking Jimmy’s mouth, but Jimmy is faster, pinning Ali’s arms in place before he can lower them, pushing him harder up against the door, still face-first, and switching the focus of lips and tongue (and teeth) to the other side of his neck. The firmness of Ali’s biceps under his fingers turns his legs, briefly, to jelly, but the hiss of frustration that escapes the other man fires him on. He lets his hands slide up Ali’s arms, enjoying the shape of them – finally, finally, he’s got free rein to touch them – until he can bring both together and trap the wrists under one hand. His other hand he then sends exploring, down past neck and chest to waist, where he pulls the edge of Ali’s shirt free of his tracksuit bottoms and teases his fingers across bare, warm skin.

Ali’s breathing is ragged, and Jimmy knows his own is only slightly more controlled. He lets his hand travel lower, slowly now, applying less pressure, back out of the shirt and down past the waistband of his bottoms. He can tell before he gets to his goal, by the gasp Ali gives, that the other man is already getting hard, and so it proves.

At first he just brushes his fingertips over the bulge: once, twice. Then he goes in more strongly, cupping his hand to the shape of Ali’s shaft, pressing, squeezing, starting to massage through the layers of fabric. He grinds himself against Ali’s arse, letting him feel his own arousal.

“Oh, _fuck_ …” The first words spoken since the door was locked, and more groan than speech. “Jimmy…”

Ali jerks his arms free of the hold, with an abrupt, decisive strength that makes clear what Jimmy has suspected all along. (Ali was letting himself be pinned; must’ve enjoyed it. Jimmy notes that for future. If there is a future.) It’s Jimmy’s turn to catch his breath, now, as Ali rounds on him with desire written unmistakably in the set of his jaw and the heavy lids of his dark eyes.

The other man closes the gap between them, claiming Jimmy’s mouth – a rasp of stubble on stubble, a battle of tongues, outcome unclear but oh so compelling – and pulling at his shirt so he can get his hands under it. Then they’re half-stumbling across the room, neither of them letting go, towards a physio table. Jimmy’s not sure whether he started it or Ali did, but they push it backwards so it’s braced against the wall and it’s a perfect place to lean, the perfect place to prop Ali against while he starts to slide a hand inside the waistband of his trousers.

Jimmy feels Ali tense up, the muscles below his belly tightening; mutters into the kiss, “Okay with this?”

“ _Yes_.” Alastair seems almost to gulp in a breath. “But I’m not… I mean, I’ve never—”

“With a guy?”

Quietly: “Yeah.”

Jimmy draws back a bit, giving the other man some breathing space; smiles. “Don’t worry. If I was going to…” He shifts to one side, trails a finger down Ali’s lower back and (staying outside the clothing) down through the cleft of his backside, as low as he can reach, which is sort of a mistake because sends such a pulse of arousal through Jimmy that for a moment _he_ can’t speak.

“If we were going to fuck,” he says, into the other man’s ear, “we’d need more time. More preparation.” (Assuming Ali wants a first time better than Jimmy’s was, anyway.) “We’ll keep it simple.” He feels Ali relax against him. “For tonight.”

(He winces. That last bit was fucking clumsy. _Don’t push, idiot_. No sign Ali’s noticed, though, luckily.)

He uses both hands, now, to pull Ali’s tracksuit bottoms clear of his groin: a move that was meant to be sort of lingering and seductive but ends up being more like an awkward tug. (It’s been so long, he’s lost the knack of how to smoothly navigate another man’s clothes past an erection.) After that, he doesn’t bother trying anything ambitious with the boxers, just moves them enough to free Ali’s cock.

There’s an irresistible throb in his own groin at the sight of it, and he’s no idea what the noise was he just made, but when he glances up Ali’s expression is all hunger, no mockery. Jimmy grasps the smooth, stiff length of him without another flicker of hesitation, closing palm and fingers tight around it. He starts with slow squeezing strokes (watching the other man: eyes closing, jaw lifting, mouth opening, gasps emerging), builds to a shorter sharper staccato rhythm (Ali bites his lip, fights sound, gives in, _moans_ , pushes against Jimmy’s hand), then eases off the pace a little (drawing more sound, prolonging sensation, stoking need; making Ali mumble _yes yes don’t stop_ ).

Ali undone is a glorious sight, one he could watch all evening; he’s almost sorry to bring it to an end. A couple of firmer moves are all it takes to pull Ali over the edge into a noisy, shuddering climax.

Jimmy enjoys the view for a moment – flushed, panting Ali, bit of a mess on his thighs and on the floor – then gives the other man space to readjust without being watched, padding away in search of tissues. He finds a half-full box, wipes his hands, counts to ten as he waits, then turns and chucks the tissues across the dressing room with a low whistle to get the other man’s attention. Ali catches the box one-handed, and Jimmy looks away (mostly) as he cleans himself up and rearranges his clothes.

When Jimmy wanders back over, Ali looks to be coping well with his first foray to the bloke side; he stretches, slowly, and says with a lazy smile, “Not bad.”

Jimmy drapes his arms around Ali’s neck. “Now who’s smug?”

“I think I’m entitled,” Ali says, echoing Jimmy’s earlier words as he settles his hands at Jimmy’s waist. “My star bowler just showed off a _very_ fine wrist action.”

A beat, and then they’re both laughing. Jimmy moves in until their lips are a few inches apart.

Ali’s grinning. “Quite pleased with that line.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that one.” Jimmy smiles his way into the new kiss, can’t seem to stop smiling.

He nips at Ali’s bottom lip, plays his tongue along it. He feels hands moving down past his hips, and breaks off to bury a groan in Ali’s neck as warm fingers start rubbing, through his trousers, at his own cock.

“So. My turn?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t mind.” Jimmy does his best to match Ali’s casual tone. (Not easy, under the circumstances.) Soon Ali’s doing a much better job than he did, Jimmy’s distantly amused to note, at the underwear removal stage. “But do me a favour… take off your shirt?”

Ali draws back, and he might be blushing or the colour painting his high cheekbones might still be the flush from earlier; either way, from the surprised look in his eyes Jimmy knows he didn’t manage to make the request sound as unconcerned as he was aiming for. But the shirt comes off, even so, and Jimmy draws in a helpless breath at the sculpted chest and the contours of the other man’s arms (with their farmer’s tan line). Now he can lean back against the physio table and enjoy the full visual effect as Ali palms his cock and, after some initial fumbles, gets into a rhythm; he can lose himself in the flexes and twitches of muscle all the way up Ali’s arm, to his shoulder and beyond, as he starts to massage his shaft.

(And _oh god_ too much sensation. Jimmy can feel, and hear, himself starting to lose control. It’s almost frightening how much he needs this.)

To distract himself, to prolong things, he says, “I had a joke about nurdling all ready to go, but I guess I don’t need it.”

Ali stops, raises his eyebrows. “You know, I’ve got what I wanted. I could just go home right now…”

“Don’t you _dare_.” Jimmy grabs Ali by the back of the neck, pulls him down for a fierce kiss. Soon Ali’s hand is moving again and Jimmy’s concentration breaks; he gives up on kissing, has to hang onto the table for support against a fresh wave of arousal so acute it almost hurts.

He sees Ali’s tongue sticking a little way out of his mouth, like it does when he’s batting, and for a split second Jimmy’s brain heads off down that unwelcome path (batting – today – top edge – caught – game over). But mostly he’s thinking about how hot the sight is, and of all the things he wants to do with Ali’s mouth, if this becomes more than a one-off.

That’s what he takes with him as he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the build and build and build and _build_ of tension in his gut, the sheer aching unbearable need of it, and he sets his jaw and clutches at the edge of the table behind him as hard as he can – but in the end, there’s no holding in the moan that’s wrenched from him as he comes.

He feels shaky, after; more than he’d really like to admit. When he opens his eyes again, Ali’s leaning against the physio table beside him; soiled tissue dangling from one hand, gaze fixed on the floor.

Jimmy sorts himself out without disturbing Ali, then says at last, “You okay?”

Ali looks up, blinking: his breath a sigh, his half-smile hard to read. “Lot to take in.”

“But… okay?”

“Yeah.” A proper smile this time. “Was that…?”

“Yeah.” Jimmy swallows. “Really good.”

Ali starts forward, hesitates, then moves in more decisively. The meeting of mouths this time is languid; reflective. Not that he’s keeping score (okay, he is), but Jimmy’s pretty sure it’s the first time Ali’s been the one to initiate a kiss since this all started, back in the reception room. That feels like a long time ago.

There’s a hand on his shoulder and what it’s doing can only be described as a caress. Jimmy decides it’s time to make a move before this gets messy; before they start talking about what it all means, or something.

“Well. I probably should—”

“Yes. Sorry,” Ali says, backing off. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s just…” ( _Go on_ , Jimmy tells himself; _don’t second guess_.) “You know. Broady’s waiting for me.” He runs a hand – firmly, slowly – down one of Ali’s (still bare) arms. “Much as I would like to…” He catches Ali’s eye, lets that thought trail off, lets Ali imagine what he’d _like to_ do (and keep imagining, for the next couple of weeks). “I should go and shower, before he comes back up to find out what’s taking me so long.”

He plants a lingering kiss on a wide shoulder: a little seed of lust for (if he’s playing this right) next time.

“See you at Trent Bridge,” he says. When he glances up, Ali’s eyes are wide.

Then Jimmy strides off before he can do any more second guessing, picking up a towel and so on without looking back.

The shower cubicle has a curtain, but he doesn’t bother to draw it. (You never know.)

His intuition proves spot-on. He’s only been in there a minute when he spots movement out of the corner of his eye: Ali, edging ever so slightly round the corner. Hands in his pockets, still shirtless; staring, flushed. Jimmy pretends he hasn’t noticed, resisting the temptation to call out _Come and join me_.

He’d prefer the situation reversed, with him the one watching, but he’s more than happy to let Ali have an eyeful. He sluices away the remains of his shower gel, lets himself enjoy the heat of the water, the sting of it on the lingering sensitivity in his groin. After a moment he turns, just a little, to make sure Ali gets at least a partial frontal. (He knows a thing or two about posing.)

After a good thirty seconds at least, the other man lets out a shaky breath, and backs away. Shortly after, Jimmy catches the sound of the dressing room door opening, and closing.

He smiles to himself as he rubs shampoo into a lather in his hair.

 _Give it a few weeks_ , he thinks; when they next see each other, there’s a rematch on the cards, for sure.


End file.
